Handwritten
by Antosha Chekhonte
Summary: Loghain Mac Tir arranges a marriage with Maris Cousland to ensure his daughter's place as queen. Maris Cousland's idea of marriage only ever meant Nathaniel Howe, but she can't refuse her duty as a Cousland. Takes place the year before the Blight begins. AU
1. 10th of Harvestmere, Dragon 9:28

A/N: I don't own Dragon Age. If I did certainly the whole thing would be from Loghain's point of view.

I'd like to make a few comments- I have no idea where this is going. I write in a slipshod fashion and go back to edit later. I'm also a short story writer first and foremost, so this is an attempt at a longer piece. I'd like this piece to be its own thing and to begin the civil war/Blight with a sequel, but we'll see.

My knowledge of Dragon Age lore is sort of sketchy. I know the game pretty thoroughly, but things that happen in _The Stolen Throne_ and _The Calling_ I know from reading other fanfiction, discussion, and the Dragon Age wiki. Any corrections are appreciated.

10th of Harvestmere, 9:28 Dragon

In his hands the paper crumbles and for a moment he is reminded of an Orlesian, a chevalier, whose arm he had broken at one point in the Rebellion, but he can't remember when or where it had happened. Somewhere in the Bannorn, he is sure, perhaps not even a proper battle, but a skirmish or some such thing. Perhaps he had simply seen the chevalier on his horse and picked him off somehow. It all blurs together in his mind now and what is even the point in trying to remember such things, when it was far behind him and he has done far worse than break a man's arm with his bare hands?

For some reason it is this thought that calms him and allows him to pull the paper towards himself, smoothing it out over his desk as he takes a moment to read it over again.

_ . . . he has spoken to B.C. . . I don't believe B. wants to agree, but may waver . . My source indicates he is looking for alternatives. . . She and N.H. are old childhood friends. . . Very Ferelden young woman with a faithful mabari. . . B. has made it clear potential betrothals must be sent by the end of Harvestmere so the announcement can be made according to tradition on Wintersend._

The Hero of River Dane, Butcher of Ferelden, Commander of Ferelden, Councilor to King Maric, Teryn of Gwaren, Maric's Butcher, Mac Tir. These are all his names, in some way or another, but one of his most prized is what he reads at the top of this letter in his daughter's graceful script. Father. And now she has impetuously written this to him (she knows better than to put such things to paper), warning him of Cailan's intention to set her aside, but mostly what he reads is the threat to her, shoved off to be heir to his teryn in a good case and off to a Chantry somewhere for vows in a worst case. If there is a life Loghain Mac Tir does not wish for his daughter, it is being a Chantry sister. Andraste may be good and well, but the Orlesian fingers are slipped into a few too many Chantry pasties as far as he's concerned.

This will not do. It's not part of the plans, the ones made so long ago by himself and Maric, looking at their two young children playing together in the royal garden. More than that, however, is the threat to Anora posed by Bryce Cousland's daughter. Certainly her blood makes her eligible for the throne, but it seems as though her family hardly wants it for her, not in the way Anora does and has been raised for. Would Cousland be a strong influence over Cailan? Would she be able to curb his excesses and know the ways of keeping his short attention span towards the modicum of governing he bothers himself with? In short, Loghain thinks, would she be able to do what Anora has done for years already, used to it from childhood?

He has met her a few times, danced with her once, even talked with her, and found her charming enough, wild in an interesting way and clearly uncomfortable in her gown and slippers, eyeing her brother's trousers and doublet enviously. She was noble, but hardly acted like it. Howe referred to her derisively as "Bryce's little spitfire," but Loghain kept his response to himself.

_ Your queen was _my_ little spitfire at some point. She climbed trees with Cailan, went "camping" with him in the royal gardens in summer, defeated legions of darkspawn and chevaliers at his side, skinned her knees and chipped a tooth when they tried to climb from a window at night to watch a meteor shower-_

As he remembers these things of his daughter, he returns to the rest of the parchment, his index finger tapping his upper lip thoughtfully. He has no idea why these sudden memories make him more inclined to look at her suggestion, but they do.

_ I have sent this with our most trusted man because of what I ask of you: offer yourself for Maris Cousland. While I have nothing against her personally (or the Couslands generally), her lack of a formal betrothal is a problem. That sudden interest in her is untenable for a variety of reasons, not least of which is my own position, but also, as I know you're already thinking, whether or not Maris Cousland is capable of keeping on the sort of leash that's needed._

Loghain sighs deeply, pushing the braids away as he massages his temples. Why a letter? Why could she not ask him about this in person when they had seen each other a few short hours ago or when they will see one another tomorrow? She knows he detests games and this feels like a political one, somehow. He has never been particularly savvy in regards to those. It seems far more useful to keep an eye on the army, train Maric's Shield to his exacting standards, stay vigilant against the Orlesians-

As this thought crosses his mind a scowl comes over his face, turning into a frown. Bryce Cousland is awfully close to some Orlesians, he has learned. Not in a truly troubling way, but it's a worrisome sort of closeness, one that bore watching for the future. He does not doubt Bryce's loyalty to Ferelden, regardless of his being thrust forward for the throne, but he doubts the Orlesians' ability to maintain friendly relationships without an ulterior motive. He wonders how friendly the Orlesians would be if his daughter married the Butcher of Ferelden, and even if they chose to continue their "friendships" with Bryce perhaps having Maris Cousland in his home would not be a terrible strategy. It would be one way to keep an eye on that particular intrigue, if one can call it that, and Loghain doesn't doubt he can. They're Orlesian, after all. Every thing is a bloody intrigue, part of their "Grand Game."

Loghain looks over to the corner of his study where the River Dane armor sits on its stand, only brought out for special occasions since the cessation of active war. It needs a good polishing and to be checked for issues.

The frown deepens. Where did that thought come from? The last special occasion had been the burning of Maric's pyre, pathetic though it had been with just a white shirt. He and Cailan had stood together and he recognized the weakness in his son-in-law, how the king's bowed head and shoulders weren't what the people needed, but in that moment what the people needed mattered less than what a boy beside him needed. He'd put a hand on Cailan's shoulder and Cailan had looked up at him with a weak smile, a smile holding the remnants of the ten-year-old who had cried when he thought he'd killed Anora during the meteor shower incident (_I swear, Loghain, I meant to help her down, I swear it, but_-).

His thoughts scatter and his lips become tight as he thinks about that night. What had Cailan wished for on the meteor shower? _To be strong and fight like my father!_ and with a whisper he'd asked to protect Anora better, especially once they were married. Anora had held her tongue, reminding him that he couldn't know what she wanted or else it wouldn't come true, but she had told him, several years later once the superstition wore off. _I was a silly child, Father, I wanted to be a good queen, but I wanted to have a happy marriage with Cailan, mostly._

For reasons he could not understand, his daughter loved the man and had for a long time. How Cailan had gone from that spirited, thoughtful boy to whatever he was now (_a foolish boy playing at king was Loghain's most frequent and never uttered thought_) was a mystery, but there it was. He had become a weak man, unable to set aside his own desires and whims for the good of the country he ruled. Anora loved him and had for a very long time, possibly close to their whole lives. She did not light up upon seeing him, but her smiles became easier and her eyes always softened as Cailan chattered inanely, her hand on his arm as they strolled around the gardens or Denerim. Loghain knew being set aside would devastate her, partly for the throne, yes, but partly for her own reasons.

And what would it do to Ferelden? He doesn't doubt that's in her thoughts as well. He supposes that Bryce Cousland's daughter would be a good queen, but it wouldn't be the proper queen. It wouldn't be the one sanctioned by Maric. He can't pretend that hasn't crossed his mind. This marriage is what Maric wanted for Ferelden and Cailan wants to throw it all away for some- some _infatuation_ with a nobleman's daughter. His whims are more important to him than Ferelden and while he can't imagine a Cousland neglecting their duty, he knows Anora will be exactly the queen needed while he can only wonder about this Cousland.

Would he marry her- a girl nearly half his own daughter's age- to see the throne safe, to see Ferelden secure with their current king and queen and avoid scandal at such a low point? Wouldn't the Orlesians view such discord as a perfect opportunity to reach out or launch some sort of attack? They would, the cowardly bastards. But Maris Cousland's formal betrothal means that such things could be avoided. Cailan would mope, but he would forgot about it with the next pretty woman who wandered along. And the throne would stay secure.

Would he marry the Cousland girl then? For his daughter's sake and for the sake of the throne and stability for Ferelden?

What a ridiculous question. Of course he would.

Under his fingers the paper begins to crumble again. His lips turn back to a frown as he thinks of the Orlesian chevalier whose arm he had broken. He knows better now. He wouldn't bother with such frivolities, not on the battlefield. Loghain glances over Anora's letter one last time, picks it up, and crumbles it before tossing it into the fire, his eyes making sure it's totally ash before he sits back down at his desk. His reply is short, but he expects she knows that about him.

_A,_  
_We will meet tomorrow for supper for further discussion. C has said he will be out for other business. _  
_F_

"Ultan," he says and the elf hesitantly sticks his head in from the hallway.

"Yes, Your Grace?"

Loghain folds the letter and seals it, but uses a worn signet ring to stamp it. He'd picked it up off a battlefield from so long enough ago he hardly remembered. Anora will recognize it, but no one else would now that Maric is gone, he knows. Except perhaps Ultan, once one of his elves in the Rebellion. It had been Ultan and his young bride, Keava, to suggest scaling the cliffs. There are many reasons he trusts Ultan, especially with the duty of directing handling all his correspondence. He has very particular skills, for one.

"This is to go straight to my daughter," he says, handing the letter over. "Straight to her and only to her, as her letter to me did. Understood?"

Ultan bows. "Yes, ser. Shall I wait for a reply?"

"No," Loghain says. "I will see her tomorrow."

He slips some silvers into Ultan's hand.

"Your son needs new boots, does he not? Children grow so quickly."

Ultan's hand clutches the silver.

"Yes, General," he murmurs, holding the silvers closely and then the letter just as closely.

"He's doing well, yes?" Loghain asks. The boy had almost been named after him, but at his request the boy's name was Gareth.

"Yes, my lord," Ultan says with his only smile of the day. "Very well. He's quite an ar- well, he's quite talented in some ways."

"I imagine he is," Loghain says, thinking of how Ultan had once been the finest archer he'd ever known and likely still is, though neither of them can admit it. That his son, Gareth Vander, is just as good is no surprise.

"I'll take this to Her Majesty immediately," Ultan says, the coins going into his pocket. "And then-"

"Ultan," Loghain says, "I don't suppose you've ever been to Highever?"

Ultan pauses. "No, my lord. I've not been quite that far north."

Loghain looks at him, marveling that his most trusted man is an elf.

"I may- perhaps within the next few days I will likely require a courier up there. Would you be interested?"

"I would be happy to deliver something for you," Ultan says, bowing his head.

Loghain taps his upper lip. "I would pay you per hour for the trip and for your travel. It would probably take at least a week, likely longer with bad seas. Gareth might enjoy the trip as well."

"He has been- ah, declaring his intention to get out of Denerim for awhile now."

"I imagine he has."

"He is young," Ultan says, "and hardly understands how his lot would be no different or worse elsewhere."

"Go home when you're finished," Loghain says, thinking about young Gareth Vander. "It's not so late you can't salvage some time."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," he says. "I'll be retiring shortly anyway."

"As you wish," Ultan says, bowing. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Loghain says nothing as Ultan slides out of the door, the letter safely tucked into his jacket. Ultan will know the best possible route to the castle, melting in the shadows. It's part of the reason he entrusts him with correspondence. Calling him a footman was rather insulting, Loghain thinks as he stands and stretches, knowing he should go to bed, but he rubs his face and pulls a piece of parchment towards himself. He writes the date at the top and hesitates for a moment, then writes _To the Teryn of Highever, Bryce Cousland_.

The chevalier is in his mind again for a moment and he looks down, his hand trembling as he thinks of how to begin this. The chevalier had spoken in broken Ferelden, he remembers suddenly.

_ Monsieur, s'il vous plaît._

His hand is steady again as he presses down to write.

_My son. Five. Not old._

Loghain looks down. His daughter can ask anything of him (and of course she does), but she has asked him this. She asks him to involve another person. How will Maris Cousland feel about this potential marriage? Loghain knows that her feelings only matter as far as Bryce will allow them to, of course. It's her father's right to arrange a marriage for her, one that will benefit Highever and their family, and Loghain is aware that Bryce has been pressing for new trade agreements with Antiva for several years, business that would be easy enough to finish with two teryns supporting it. In fact, many of the trade agreements Bryce was interested in would be easy to enough to consider. There are plenty of reasons Bryce has to support this, particularly given his apparent reluctance to involve himself in Cailan's scheming. In ways, Loghain is aware he's the best choice because he's probably the only man Cailan wouldn't challenge (it would certainly tip his intention to set Anora aside much too early), and even if he were challenged by the silly boy-king, once Bryce were to send an affirmative reply even the king had no recourse.

He does not need to care what Maris Cousland thinks of this, but it would be unpleasant to live with an angry young woman. And then she's a young woman. She surely has options other than a surly, bitter commoner-turned-noble. Would it tear her from something else, damage her?

The chevalier's arm is under his hands again and they twitch over his desk. Given the chance, what would he do to the chevalier now?

_ Mon fils, monsieur! S'il vous plaît!_

Loghain sits there as the candle drips wax onto his desk. He looks at it dispassionately. It will need cleaned up in the morning. He drops his quill on the parchment and shoves himself back from his desk. He snuffs the candle flame out between his index finger and thumb. Loghain runs a hand through his hair as the answer comes to him.

Now he would slit the man's throat, run him through, decapitate, disembowel- anything to get him out of the way and assure more dead chevaliers. To assure Ferelden's safety. He wonders if the man had appreciated a few more minutes of life, even with a broken arm and knowing about his imminent death, or if he would have preferred a more efficient death. That is a question worth pondering some night with a tumbler of Gwaren whiskey.

The door closes with a click behind him as he leaves his study, shrouding the beginnings of his letter to Bryce Cousland in darkness.


	2. 1st of Firstfall, Dragon 9:28

A/N: I still do not own Dragon Age, which is still a shame.

I said this during the previous one and will probably continue doing so for a few chapters, but my knowledge of Dragon Age lore and such isn't very good. I'm familiar with the game and avidly read the wiki, but haven't yet read _Stolen Throne _or _The Calling_, though I'm planning to soon. I appreciate corrections or suggestions.

I've read that it was confirmed that Nathaniel's age is 30 in Awakening, but… nah. I'm making him just two years older than Maris Cousland since this is fanfiction and I can do what I want. In regards to that, he's been in the Free Marches for a year. 

30th of Harvestmere, 9:28 Dragon

Her mother has long since bowed to the fact that she will steal Fergus's clothes if necessary and now the castle tailor simply accepts that most of his duties for her clothes includes shirts, trousers, and jerkins. She knows what her parents expect of her in exchange for this arrangement and puts up with the gowns and slippers for formal parties with a grimace and half-hearted glare, though Maris Cousland suspects that she can't be too upset with her parents for this. Any other nobles would have shipped her to be embarrassing elsewhere (or worse, she thinks with a shudder, she'd be _forced_ into the satin monstrosities).

As she ties the top of her shirt and pulls a jerkin on for the day she makes a look in the mirror at herself and grins before smoothing down the front of her shirt. She and Fergus are going hunting today and she supposes she should get a cloak. The wind coming in off the sea is bracing and she knows if she has to take Fergus's cloak he won't let her live it down. Of course, she's not sure he ever lets her live _anything _down, as though it hadn't been his fault her inkwell exploded on her five minutes before King Maric himself walked into the library looking for a book on dragons or the time- well, Nan still refuses to let Sarim near the kitchens when she's making pork pasties.

Maris turns to her bed, where her mabari is still sprawled on his back, tongue lolling. His russet colored fur gleams under the sunlight coming in through her window and she wakes him by scratching behind his ears. The smell of his breath makes her grimace and she playfully pushes him.

"Sarim, did you eat whatever's at the bottom of Thad's tanning pit?"

He gives her a doleful look. She screws up her face.

"You didn't really, did you?"

She's sure if mabari could roll their eyes he would now. As it is he rolls over to his belly and bounds gracefully off the bed, tilting his head while he looks at her. He seems to recognize her hunting outfit as his stubby tail wags back and forth and he grins, showing off his massive teeth.

"Yes," she says, kneeling down to pet him, "your teeth are lovely white and fierce. You can tear apart all kinds of things with them."

He barks as if to agree and she pulls herself up, hearing Fergus blunder down the hall as he sang.

"Maris, Maris, will you dare us to march to Amaranthine? The storms are fierce and our mothers proud, but if-"

"If you sing like that in the woods the animals will just run the other way," Maris says when he strides in.

"It's the most traditional Highever ballad," he says, sniffing. "It's not my fault if you're too unsophisticated to appreciate it-"

She knows she'll never get him to stop singing his favorite song, so she slaps his arm lightly.

"Father made us promise that if he talked Mother into letting both of us go today we'd get a good deer for supper tomorrow. Keep singing and we'll never get to go hunting again."

She grabs her bow and quiver, strapping a dagger to her ankle before snapping her fingers for Sarim. He stiffens and becomes alert, his ears perking up. She turns to say something to Fergus and it's caught in her throat as she looks at him. He's a few inches taller than she is, but broader and his forearms are massive compared to hers and she's suddenly struck by him in that moment. Although he's so much a grown man now and beyond her in ways, his cloak is fastened crookedly under his ear. He's one of her favorite people in the world, surpassing even Nathaniel. She doesn't know what she'd do without him, most days.

"Let's go, Frog" she says, grabbing her brother's arm. "Before anyone finds us and keeps us here for even longer!" 

* * *

She ends up scrambling up a tree, Fergus behind her, in order to perch and observe the trail below them. Sarim is off in the woods, attempting to corral deer, though Maris suspects he mostly wants to try and play with them. She sits on a branch and Fergus sits below her. Her feet dangle, near his face, and he pushes them away.

"You're worried about my singing and you smell like a dead darkspawn!"

"Knife-ears," she says with a sneer.

Fergus bursts out laughing and grows quiet as the wind blows and rustles the tree leaves. After a long silence he speaks.

"Are you nervous about tomorrow?" he asks.

"For what?" she asks, pushing it away. She knows what he's referring to, but she's not going to acknowledge it.

_ Betrothal inquiries. _

She sticks her tongue out at nothing in particular.

"You know," he says, uncharacteristically serious. "You can't push this off and pretend like you didn't know it was coming. I know you've been trying to paw through the letters in Father's study-"

"I didn't open the desk drawers," she says idly, looking down at the trail.

She presses her lips together, surprised at the sudden heat in her eyes. She supposes there's still hope. Harvestmere isn't quite over, after all.

"That's still not-"

"Oh please," she says. "Like _you _didn't- in fact, you asked me to help you pick the lock on his study door and on his desk."

She can't see him, but she knows her brother well enough to know he's blushing.

"Well," he says, "it is a big thing."

"Did Mother only agree to this to get you to talk to me about being a proper lady?" Maris asks. This is something that has occasionally happened and now that she's closer to seventeen than not she knows it's inevitable.

"No," he says, laughing. "Do you think that's the only reason I'd go out with you?"

"No," she says, "but you know how she can be."

He laughs lowly again and Maris takes a deep breath, relishing the knowledge she has Fergus's undivided attention for the first time in ages. The trail is still empty and she hadn't expected to get anything anyway, not this late in the season. Off in the distance she hears Sarim's joyful barking.

"Do you think Father will get anymore letters today?" she asks.

"It's a possibility," Fergus says. "He mentioned that he's expecting some correspondence from Amaranthine regarding some trade issues at port."

The tension in her stomach settles. It's still a young day and she can avoid the unsteadiness in his voice when he says "possibility."

"Good," she says.

"Trade issues are always good," Fergus says dryly.

"Oh, you know what I meant."

"Mmm. Next thing you know you'll be declaring Orlesian blockades as vital to Highever's future-"

She smiles, but says nothing. She knows her smile is strained. As she opens her mouth to respond she catches a sound and leans forward. The sunlight is coming through the brilliant orange, yellow, and red leaves and the brisk wind is faint now, just enough to blow stray hair around her face. Through the leaves she sees tawny fur and raises her bow, notching the arrow into it. The hind picks her way carefully through the small piles of leaves and is followed by a fawn, a few months old at least. Without thinking about it, Maris lowers her bow and puts the arrow back in her quiver, watching the hind and fawn make their way across the trail. 

* * *

The next morning she does not want to get out of bed. Maris is usually up shortly after dawn, sometimes just before it. She gets out of bed late, when the sun is partly across the sky. There's no hurry for her to leave her room, though she dresses and washes her face for the day. Sitting on the hearth of her fireplace she lifts up a loose rock and pulls out a small sheaf of letters. The first one she pulls out is the most recent, written on the 12th of Kingsway.

_ My father won't call me back home any time soon. I know that, although I'm still not sure what I did to upset him. I know your father has made it known that any betrothal inquiries must be in by the end of Harvestmere; I've told my father of my interest and hope he has the sense to make the offer. I know he's just greedy enough to see it as a perfect opportunity for himself. Our happiness is secondary (if it matters at all), but your brother is heir, so there's little, if any, chance that he'll get his hands on Highever. We can be the arl and arlessa of Amaranthine and that suits me just fine, as I know it does you. I don't care about your family's land and wealth- that's just convenient for my father. _

Maris knows Nathaniel would have brought it up with his father. He's practical, independent, fierce, but so sweet and thoughtful at the same time. He's the opposite of his father, actually, which is a relief. Her parents won't object to such a match either. Nathaniel understands and has assured her that he doesn't care what she wears and that all the things Eleanor has tried to (unsuccessfully) get her to stop doing are what he loves about her.

She takes a deep breath and looks at the end of the letter. _All of my love, Nathaniel._ She presses her lips to it and sighs, wondering when Rendon Howe will let him come back to Ferelden. Nathaniel is his heir; surely he should be home and learning how to run the arling.

There's a sharp knock on her door. She quickly replaces the letters and stands up nervously, sitting on the end of her bed and petting Sarim as she says, "come in." It's only her mother.

"Your father wants to see you in his study," she says. When Maris leaves her room she expects Eleanor to follow, but she merely looks around at her daughter's room. Sarim is still sprawled out on the bed.

"Seventeen is a very exciting age," Eleanor says.

Maris merely shrugs, one of the many unladylike things she does that she knows irritates her mother. Eleanor looks as though she wants to say something, but changes her mind as she turns.

"I'm going to tend to Oren," Eleanor says, heading across the hall. "Oriana went to town for a bit-"

"You're not coming?" Maris says, then presses her lips together. Eleanor looks at her strangely and somewhat sadly.

"Your father and I have already discussed it. He knows where I stand."

"I suppose I should go then," Maris says. "Sarim, come on. We're going to Father's study."

Once he hears his name he leaps off the bed and trots towards her, walking past and then cocking his head expectantly at her. She follows, wishing her mother were beside her, which isn't something she's thought much lately. She wonders how often she'll think it when she's far off, married to where ever (_but please let it be Amaranthine, please Maker and Andraste, whoever I have to invoke_).

Her father's study door is ajar and she walks in, taking the seat across from him while Sarim sits by her knee, taking advantage of her position to drool all over her with his head in her lap. Scratching his ears, she sees her father smile broadly and reach into the desk drawer with the lock she can pick in a minute, pulling out a reasonable stack of letters and setting them on his desk. She looks at them and wishes she had something to drink, particularly the ale from Wolf's Rest. Her father pushes something towards her and Maris takes the glass without thinking, her fingers finding purchase as she lifts it to her lips. Whatever it is burns and she sputters, watching her father sip at his.

"If I ever teach you anything, Pup," Bryce says, clearly savoring his drink, "let it be said I taught you to never _drink _Gwaren whiskey."

"Whatever would Mother say if she knew you were letting me have whiskey before midday?"

"Remember when we went camping and you and Fergus fell out of the tree? And, ah, the arrow-"

"Yes," Maris says, her lips twitching. She knows where this is going.

"It's on that same list- Things We Don't Tell Your Mother."

Despite the weight on her chest, she laughs and smiles at him. The weight shifts, making it just a bit easier to breath, even when he puts a hand on the letters.

"So," he murmurs, "in six months you'll be seventeen."

She isn't sure what to say to that so she sips the whiskey. It's smoky with a hint of vanilla and cinnamon, reminding her of the bonfires during summer festivals, which makes her think of Summerdays spent with the Howes and other noble families, how she would run off with the noble boys, on hot days trailing behind Fergus and Nathaniel and eventually being allowed to walk with them, encouraged even as her sharp eyes could track prey well. Cool nights spent at her father's side, how he had let her fall asleep on his shoulder and he'd insisted on carrying her to her bedroom until she was twelve and too big for it. She remembers the summer bonfires and wishes he did not have those letters sitting on his desk.

The whiskey still burns her lips and throat, even when she sips it again.

"Your mother and I were betrothed when we were seventeen," Bryce says. "It was- well, I can't say a _good _year since we joined the Rebellion a few weeks later- but it's a year that stands out."

She bites the inside of her cheek to stop from saying something. She just looks at him, from his furrowed brows to his frown to the hand that is on top of the letters. This is how she'll know whether or not it's a good year for her. If one of them has the seal of Amaranthine on it.

"You just came for these and not to spend time together? I'm wounded, Pup."

He pushes them towards her. Her hands slip around the smooth parchment and under on hand she feels the wax seal of some family.

"After supper tonight," he says, putting a hand on hers, "let me know which ones you prefer. We can talk about them and consider which ones would bring you the best future-"

"And the family," she says quietly, aware that her role is not just for herself, but what could strengthen the Couslands and Highever. A strong alliance with Amaranthine would do that, but she has thought a bit beyond Amaranthine. There are other marriages that would benefit them even if she hasn't brought herself to think about particulars for those beyond a smoky room in some disrepaired manor while she forces herself to kiss a faceless nobleman's cheek. She nearly shudders right there, remembering the recurring nightmare that had echoed that fear.

"Maris," Bryce says quietly, seeing her stiffened back, "that's important. We Couslands do our duty, but duty isn't just about family and country. You have a duty to yourself too."

She looks at him with surprise. He squeezes her hand under his and then sits back down, tossing back the rest of his Gwaren whiskey. She turns and feels her heart thudding as she and Sarim make their way back to her room. Fergus is standing there with a grin.

"Mother kindly let me come sit with you while she attends to the little terror," he says.

"Just what I wanted," Maris says, letting herself into her room, "the worst singer in all of Ferelden to sing me love songs while I sort through possible betrothals."

Fergus flings himself on her bed without a care, kicking off his boots while she sits at her desk. He's distracted by petting Sarim while she initially lays down all the letters by spreading them over the surface of her desk, face up, while she looks at "To the Teryn of Highever, Bryce Cousland" on the front of each. There are eight total and she begins to flip them over to look at the seals, distinguishing them easily even though her father has already broken them.

The first is from Bann Sighard of Dragon's Peak with his moon and stars, probably for his son, Oswyn, a likable and nearly cliché Ferelden nobleman. Her lip curls upward without her thinking about it as she sees the seal of the Arl of Denerim- whether for Vaughan Kendells or Arl Urien it's an unpleasant idea. Urien may be a decent fellow, but the mere thought of being related to Vaughan is repulsive. And the third down is easily Ceorlic's griffin. That might be worse than Urien- even if Ceorlic wasn't associated with the Orlesians, his father's treason leaves something to be desired.

At the top of the second row is Teagan Guerrin's seal for Rainesfere, a wolf in contrast to the normal Guerrin seal. That's something, she thinks, chewing on her lower lip. That Teagan would intentionally use his bannorn's seal and not the grander and more well-known seal of the Guerrin family says something. Her father is not a huge fan of Eamon Guerrin, but he's cordial with Teagan and is polite about him at home, which is more than she can say for Eamon. Maybe Teagan is attempting to distance himself from his brother, finally. Her eyes linger on that particular seal before she moves on.

The next two are ones she doesn't recognize. They are more ornate than any Ferelden seals and she knows they must be from another country in Thedas, probably Orlesian for as pretentious as they are. While the thought is somewhat intriguing, she knows that she'd rather marry Teagan Guerrin or even Oswyn than leave Ferelden. Besides, she's sure that a non-Fereldan husband wouldn't understand why Sarim needs to sleep near her, if not in the same bed.

Those two are laid off to the side without a thought. No. She's not leaving Ferelden. The thought is appalling, no matter how it might benefit the family and Highever. _You have a duty to yourself too._ It's likely that the reason her father mentioned it was because of those letters. She knows he would be unhappy for her to be out of Ferelden, for her sake if not her mother's or his own.

Whatever reservations she's had during this whole thing are gone in the next moment as she flips the second to last letter over and sees the bear seal of the Howes and Amaranthine. She stops herself from squealing (which is a horrible sound reserved for the likes of Habren Bryland) and doesn't bother to be decorous as she snatches up the letter and pulls it out, but as she reads her face falls, along with something inside her. It falls and tumbles, hitting every vital organ in her body as it does so before it shatters somewhere in her stomach, the shards impaling her heart because they have to be because what else would make her chest hurt like this?

_ No, no, no, no. _What in the name of the Maker is Rendon Howe _thinking_? Had he not paid attention to the last four years, all the letters, all the visits, the knowing smiles Bryce and Eleanor gave to Maris when she and Nathaniel would wander off for hours in the woods? Had Rendon Howe not seen when his son taught her archery, his hands lingering just a few seconds more than necessary, but not long enough to be inappropriate or their childhood spent in a mutual rivalry about the silliest things or when he'd pull on her braid?

Did Howe think she had some sort of weird preference for little boys like an Orlesian lord or some templars she's heard of?

The playful growling from behind her stops. She imagines Fergus has stopped pulling on an old piece of leather for Sarim. Her mabari pads over and lays his head in her lap, whining softly and nudging her hand with his nose. She scratches his ears automatically. Fergus's hand is on her shoulder.

"What's wrong, Rissy?"

She shakes her head, sure if she speaks she'll just burst into tears and what's the point in that? What good is that going to do except show her just as weak as Habren, who threw a fit when she couldn't get Nathaniel to so much as glance at her during the very last ball for King Maric? Though in her muddled thoughts Maris thinks this is rather more a big deal. Fergus takes the letter from her fingers gently. She doesn't see the crease of his eyebrows as he reads.

"This is- it's a joke. I mean- Thomas wet the bed until last year, for Maker's sake! He's ten-"

"Eleven, Froggy," Maris says, remembering the letter Nathaniel had sent her in Justinian, angry he'd been sent away a few weeks before his brother's nameday.

"Ten- eleven? Who cares? It's insulting that he'd send us a betrothal inquiry for his second son. You could be the teryna of Highever (Maker forbid, but you're third in line) and he thinks you'll settle for Thomas, who isn't even his heir?"

"Thomas is very sweet," she says. And it's true. Thomas Howe is a small, slight boy with overlarge gray eyes (_just like Nathaniel's_, she thinks dully). His clothes are always rumpled and he's always so eager to please, to spend the day trailing behind his beloved older brother. He's charming in a shy way as he blushes when addressed by anyone with the slightest bit of authority. But he's eleven years old and Maris can remember the days when he'd shrilly declared to she and Nathaniel as they teased him, _I'm going to tell Papa!_

"Oh please. Tell me you're not considering it just to be close to-"

"Of course not," she says sharply, feeling something in her recoil when Fergus says that. He takes a deep breath as he realizes what he's said.

"Sorry," he says lowly. "I just-"

"I'd be wiping his nose on our wedding night," Maris says through numb lips and for some reason she has to stifle a giggle.

"But Arl Howe has kindly given you six years, until Thomas is seventeen. Isn't that thoughtful?"

Maris smiles weakly. She's surprised Rendon Howe hadn't insisted that Thomas could be married off at fifteen or sixteen, as sometimes happened.

"What's this last one, Rissy?" Fergus asks, leaning over her. "You've got one more-"

She takes the letter, grateful to Fergus for trying to distract her from this awful hole that's starting to form inside her, and furrows her brows at the seal. A wyvern. She knows this is a Ferelden herald, but it escapes her where it belongs. There's something right on the edge of her thoughts, as though she knows she won't be surprised on seeing the name of the man who had made this offer.

"Do you know the seal, Frog?" she asks. He says nothing, only crosses his arms over his chest. This is a gesture she knows well; he's trying to hide his discomfort with something. Nathaniel does- she tears her mind away from that thought, clutching this unknown letter with one hand as she closes her eyes.

She can't think about that. Not now. She has a duty to finish.

Fishing the letter from the envelope, Maris is even more nonplussed by the tight, slanted print writing. All noblemen knew script and spent plenty of time practicing penmanship. She could remember hours at the table next to Fergus as she practiced script while he worked on his lessons. It was rather easier on the eyes though, she thinks as she glances at the letter, which is short and curt. Her eyes trail to the bottom to see the signature.

_Loghain Mac Tir_

If she weren't already sitting, Maris would have ended up on the floor. She leans back in her wooden chair and closes her eyes again.

The bloody sodding Hero of River Dane wants to marry _her_? With her shirt and trousers and hunting, her entirely unladylike habits embarrassing her mother at salons and parties, a distinct lack of delicacy in her movements that aren't related to the outdoors. And Loghain Mac Tir has decided to remarry (which would be juicy enough gossip on its own) and it's that girl who plays the man in Highever?

"Is it who- oh, yep," Fergus says, leaning over to peer at the signature. "I thought the wyvern was his seal. Maric let him take it as his own once he was made noble."

Maris looks at the letters on her desk. Four (the two foreigners, Ceorlic, and Arl Urien) were simply not happening. She'd as soon abandon Highever as take one of those. And poor, sweet Thomas was certainly not happening. She really would end up wiping his nose on their wedding night because he'd probably cry. He did tend to cry easily.

_ My choices are Teagan Guerrin, Oswyn, and Loghain Mac Tir. Not Nathaniel, not the boy I've been best friends with since I can remember, the one who used to let me be King Maric when we'd reenact the Rebellion, even though I'm a girl, and he'd be Loghain Mac Tir._ _Not the man I've been in love with for four years, who taught me how to pick locks so we could meet in the pantry at midnight to talk until five in the morning when Nan would show to begin breakfast. _

Maris remembers one morning when Nan had caught Nathaniel coming back for his cloak, which they'd been laying on as they talked all night. Nan'd thought he was some sort of thief or bandit and had beat him around the head with a broom, screaming until her father's squire, Rory, burst in with just his trousers on to defend her with nothing but a spare brick.

How her father had laughed at breakfast, seeing Nathaniel's scratched face and hands, howling with laughter as Nan acerbically described the scene of Rory managing to knock himself out with the brick rather than the "intruder." Yet Nathaniel hadn't once even indicated he would tell her parents the real reason he'd been in the pantry, pretending instead that he was hunting rats. Even now Bryce would sometimes mutter "hunting rats" and his eyes would mist over with laughter.

"Rissy-"

"Don't, Fergus," she says, wincing at how her voice sounds. Flat. Quiet. Nothing there.

"Do you want me to leave you alone?"

"Yes, please," she murmurs, turning back to look at the letters. She hears her door close. She can't be near these letters, not now, so she gathers them and shoves them towards the wall. Sarim whines.

"Not now," Maris says. "I can't. Later, but not now. You know, it's funny, boy-" he cocks his head at her, intently listening- "I- it never mattered what _might_ have been. I kept thinking abstractly about 'what ifs' that didn't- didn't involve Na- _him_, but I never took them seriously. It was like imagining if I were queen or something; a daydream and nothing more. And you don't make your life plans based on what you dream, right? Because I never really thought I wouldn't end up with him and now-" her eyes burn and she feels tears forming, but she can't, what's the point because it won't change anything. Sarim licks her hand tentatively and nudges her with his head. She smiles at him, watching him trot away.

Imagining her life without Nathaniel is like imagining it without Sarim, who's been with her for five years, yet it seems so long. She has no idea what she would do without Sarim and she realizes that part of what she's feeling isn't just the loss of _marrying _Nathaniel, but what husband in his right mind would permit such a friendship to continue without a huge fight? She'll have to lose his friendship too and then there's Nathaniel himself; how would he feel shunted off to the side when he wasn't convenient enough for the Couslands? She knows her parents could still let her marry him, but it wasn't convenient and what would such a marriage bring to them in any case?

Would she want to keep that sort of friendship anyway? Would she be able to be a proper wife to a man when all it would take was a letter to Nathaniel to ruin it all? Would she rather have him piecemeal, permitted just to some parts of him, or not at all? The temptation would be an awful lot. And she's a Cousland, no matter what. There are some things she has to do. Like be a proper wife. Bear little heirs for some Maker-be-damned Ferelden nobleman. Do her duty to her family and country. None of those things fit into an old friendship with someone who might be a rival noble.

She takes a deep breath as she remembers that. _There are some things she has to do._ Whether or not she wants to is irrelevant. She's the daughter of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland, groomed for something else, born to something more than what she wants, more than childhood love and friendships.

Sarim hops onto her bed and looks at her expectantly. That look is familiar and commanding as he believes he knows what will cure his mistress. Maybe he's right, for all she knows. Her mabari has never led her wrong before. Maris lies down beside him, burying her face in his furry neck, relishing that this essential part of her life is steady and unchanged.


	3. 5th of Firstfall, Dragon 9:28

A/N: I don't own Dragon Age.

It occurs to me as I write this that I've read a lot of fanfiction and I mean a lot. The problem with this is that I've sort of begun to confuse Dragon Age lore/story with fanfiction I've read, and I've read enough to not even remember where I might've got certain bits. If something here seems overtly similar to a story you've read or written, please know that this is not intentional. I'd be more than happy to change that part of my story or to give credit where it's due if you PM me.

* * *

5th of Firstfall, 9:28 Dragon

She hasn't bothered to leave her room for four days. Fergus, her mother, her father, and Oriana have rotated in and out at various times and Oriana had brought Oren last time; none of them save Oren had elicited so much as a half-smile. She's quite cozy curled up in her bed with Sarim behind her, his nose nudging her every so often, and it seems a shame to ruin the perfect state of numbness she's managed to shield herself with.

There's a part of her that knows very well that she's acting no better than Habren or one of the usual girls who hang around the young men during balls. A friend of Habren's had once proudly described her state after being rejected by Arl Wulff's son as "I couldn't get out of bed for a week!" She needs to buck up and figure out which of the other three she still has to look at. That's far more important than worrying about- worrying about- well, she can't think it. Thinking about it makes it worse.

While she doesn't understand the insult (she knows it's an insult) of offering up a younger son, one who isn't yet a man, who isn't even the heir to Amaranthine, she knows that she needs to get on with her duties as a Cousland. Even though her father had said she needed to consider her duty to herself too, she wonders how long her father will let her avoid her responsibilities to indulge in her current favorite past time of looking at her bedroom ceiling. A decision needs to be made so he can mail out responses, an agreement hammered out, a formal announcement put in for Wintersend so the Revered Mother can announce it at Chantry services in Highever, Denerim, and… what ever area she might choose.

She just wishes she had a clue why Rendon Howe had decided on _Thomas_ rather than Nathaniel. It had always seemed a given that they would be together, probably ending up as some silly Highever ballad composed by her father's minstrel. It was a very Ferelden kind of romance; and despite his unpleasantness, Maris remembers Rendon Howe's surprisingly vast knowledge of Ferelden tales, especially the romantic ones. His hard gray eyes softened when he's called on to tell a tale and Maker can Rendon Howe spin a tale. In another life he'd have been a bard. He certainly had an appreciation for romance and tales of glory, nobility, and even intrigue. His normally oily voice became strong and confident, smooth and polished like a silverite dagger fresh from a Dwarven smith.

Of course, she remembers some of Nathaniel's letters. He hadn't cared about the terynir and had been perfectly happy to inherit his lot. Perhaps Rendon Howe, his eyes always wandering elsewhere, had known that, though Maris is sure Nathaniel never would have told him on his own. Howe would want an ambitious son- or a pliable one. One he could manipulate, and poor young Thomas was that, in his own way. Oh, it was certainly still insulting, but she could understand his reasoning, even if it made her want to ride to Amaranthine, rip his heart out of his chest, and stomp on it until it was a barely twitching mass of tissue.

In the middle of pulling some blankets over her head again, Maris pauses. Yes, she's quite angry. And some of that anger is rational, but most of it isn't. At Rendon Howe (rational, she tells herself), Nathaniel for allowing himself to be shipped off (not rational, as he was loyal to family and his father had demanded it), her father for not proposing betrothals himself (perhaps somewhat rational, but a Cousland did not need to ask for betrothals; they came to the Couslands), her mother for reasons she couldn't fathom (not rational), even Fergus and Oriana for their happy marriage (not rational). Oriana had always been Fergus's first choice and it was the second betrothal envelope he had opened. Now they had a son and happiness and inside jokes. They would take over the terynir, become Teryn and Teryna of Highever, and live to see Oren become a young knight before beginning to learn his duties.

It's this that lets her think about Nathaniel again. There had been a dream she'd had once and she had only ever shared it with Nathaniel, his lips curling upwards as she described it. _It started with the two of us, Nate. We were riding along a trail on our horses- it was near Vigil's Keep, I know- and suddenly when I looked over I saw a little boy riding in front of you. When I asked you who he was, you seemed confused at my question and said, "our son." Then we showed him how to track deer, set up a camp, the right way to roast venison on an improvised spit. _And Nathaniel had said, thoughtful and quite serious, "I've always liked your father's name. Bryce Howe is a good name."

She presses the blankets to her eyes as they warm up. She hasn't cried. She can't. Crying is some sort of admission. It means she's lost.

Sarim wiggles his head into the gap between her arm and the bed. She smells his hot breath as he sticks his tongue out to lick her and whine.

"I know you don't like hanging around here with me," she says, pressing a kiss to his muzzle. "Go play with Oren. I'm sure he'd be thrilled-"

Sarim makes a deep sound in his throat, not quite a growl, clearly displeased. She knows what he's thinking. _Oren is a fine young human, but he's not _mine.

"What if I commanded you to?"

There's a faint growl, not necessarily a warning. _Dirty tricks._

"I would, you know. You don't have to suffer on my account. I know you want to go run out in the fields or after Fergus on his horse. Even trailing after Oren would be more exciting."

He blows air out of his nose, a lesser form of his earlier almost-growl. _Do I look like the most disloyal mabari in the Coastlands? _As though to declare the conversation over, he lies his head right next to her cheek.

"You're such a good boy," she whispers. "You can go if you like, but I want you here with me."

She feels his stubby tail hit her leg a few times as he agrees with her. _Yes, I am a good boy. _Poor fellow. Sarim longs to stretch his bandy legs and be with the rest of the pack, particularly the pup, she knows, but he won't ever leave her. Is it fair to stay stuffed up in here, putting him through this? And not just him, but her parents and brother as well? Eleanor has asked her four times a day, "have you eaten, Maris?" and always presses her lips together as Maris mutely shakes her head. She leaves and returns a few hours later. Her father has tried to talk to her, receiving nothing more than disinterested glances and the occasional shake of her head. Fergus tries to goad her into answering and Oriana natters on about duty and sacrifice "for the family" and other things Maris can't think of.

_ It's easy to think of duty and sacrifice as noble when it colludes so neatly with what one already has_, Maris thinks. For Oriana there has never been a doubt because there's never been a conflict.

_ I could run off to Starkhaven today. Be there within a week. Married to Nathaniel by this time next week. _

And she could. She knows that. A life in the Free Marches as a potentially disowned Cousland with an inevitably disowned Howe. She doubts her parents would truly disown her, but she certainly wouldn't inherit anything, not that it bothers her very much. She and Nathaniel could simply become mercenaries or adventurers, living an itinerant lifestyle. The thought is one of the most appealing things that's ever gone through her head. Old Tevinter and Alamarri ruins, bandits, traveling by sea to Orlais, the Anderfels, Seheron, further into the Free Marches. There's so much to see in Thedas and she has always wanted to see it all.

And one of the most utterly mad and impractical things as well. Even if she showed in Starkhaven, would Nathaniel marry her? He has a strong sense of duty for his family. He knows what is expected of him and she knows that separating him from his brother and sister would be abominably cruel. Their haughty mother had never done them any favors except give birth and though the Rendon Howe she remembers from childhood is gone, she remembers how Nathaniel worships his father, who had essentially raised his children alone with a handful of servants here and there. The Howe children had stuck together for a lack of anyone else. No, she couldn't ask that of Nathaniel for the sake of his siblings.

Not to mention her own family. The scandal would be gossip for years. _Did you hear what they did? No! A Howe and Cousland! Well, I always knew there was something off about those two, always off in the woods together. _And as the years worse on, Denerim gossip would remember them every few years. _Oh, those two? They have children now? Commoners, now, I imagine, since he was disowned and she may as well be. They're in Sehereon? They never were proper Fereldans, after all, what with his running off to the Free Marches and Bryce Cousland's relations with Orlesians. _

Even though the thought of running off to Starkhaven is appealing, Maris knows she can't. There's always duty. Isn't that what marriage is truly about, especially in Thedas? She pulls the blanket off of her head and looks at the letters still on her desk. The three she knows she must think about are sitting there innocently; their contents would be a thrill to any other young noblewoman in Ferelden, the mark of a fortuitous alliance and beginning for her married life.

Teagan Guerrin, third in line to the Arling of Redcliffe, with a prosperous bann of his own in the beautiful Rainesfere. The green hills and blue waters are legendary for their looks and resources. It certainly doesn't hurt that Teagan is one of the best-looking noblemen along with his impeccable manners and self-discipline. Then there's Eamon Guerrin and his awful Orlesian wife, Isolde, with her nasally accented Ferelden. The mere thought of dinners with those possible in-laws is enough to give her a headache. Eamon would try to tell Teagan how to run his estate, bann, politics, and perhaps even his wild wife from the Coastlands, probably all while Isolde scolded her for wearing her trousers to dinner. Isolde might even try to paint her face up like an Orlesian noble, which is a sickening thought. Ferelden women don't need to bother with such frivolities, but Isolde seems to believe she still lives in an off-shoot of Orlais (which probably isn't all that inaccurate from what she does believe, Maris thinks with a scowl).

And then Oswyn, the affable epitome of Ferelden nobility? He's not a bad sort, really. He likes hunts, drinking, and a bit of rough-housing, like any proper Fereldan man. His father, Bann Sighard, is a fine bann and she has only ever heard her father speak positively of him, except for one time when he made a disparaging remark about Rendon Howe. Though Bryce had chided him, Maris realizes she's looking kindly on him precisely because of his remark, which is both satisfying and puerile. _Rendon Howe makes vipers seem personable. _

Oswyn wouldn't be terrible, she thinks. Perhaps she could persuade him to let her go on hunts with him. Eventually she thinks she could be happy with him, once the hurt of Nathaniel lessens, even if she's not sure that's ever going to happen.

Come to think of it, though, she wonders how much independence she'd have with him. He was a proper Ferelden sort and that went beyond hunts; his mother is a meek woman, used to letting her husband and son speak for her. Maris chews her bottom lip unthinkingly. Would she be expected to follow such things? Not, she thinks, that Oswyn of Dragon's Peak could control a _Cousland_. He would know better than to try, but still…

"What do you think, Sarim?" she asks. "Oswyn of Dragon's Peak?"

He opens one eye from where he's napping and gives no indication as he looks at her and closes it again.

"Fat lot of help you are," she says, huffing. Her eyes trail to the letters again and her gut twists unpleasantly.

_ Loghain Mac Tir_. The Hero of River Dane, the man who had orchestrated the strategies that had secured Ferelden's freedom from Orlais. Nathaniel had been perfectly happy to pretend to be Loghain Mac Tir to her King Maric. She and Fergus had been raised with legends of Loghain Mac Tir, taught to revere him at their father's knee, regardless of his origins. And now he's written about her for a marriage betrothal? It would be a powerful alliance between the only two terynirs left in Ferelden; once the teryns allied it would be far easier to force certain arls and banns into some semblance of political unity. They were independent, but once particular liege-lords allied it was much easier to get them to fall into line. Maris knows the political ramifications are largely beyond her, but they must be good for Highever if her father had given her Loghain Mac Tir's letter. These were some of the things he'd have considered before giving them to her.

How would Habren react if she married Loghain Mac Tir? Habren had always had something of a hero worship for him, fueled in part by some fixation on his eyes, which if Habren were to be believed were a beautiful light blue. All Maris remembers from her dance with him is how much larger he is than her, how the top of her head had come up to just his chin and that his forearms were massive and she'd been terrified the whole time while one of his hands was in the proper place just above her hip and the other had the other, encompassing it. She'd never been so relieved to be returned to Fergus's clumsy dancing, even if his feet stepped on hers a few times.

Maris gets out of bed, retrieving the letters and looking them over again. They all the say the same thing, though Loghain Mac Tir's is to the point and barebones; she is surprised it had not been a single sentence of "I want to marry your only daughter and you know this will benefit both of our terynirs so agree, Cousland" rather than the faintly polite two paragraphs it is. She sits back down next to Sarim. She holds the three letters near him.

"Which one?" she asks. "I need your advice. You're such a smart boy, Sarim. You're fierce, smart, and loyal, the standard to which all mabari should be held."

He opens his eyes and blows air out of his nose. She recognizes his attitude. _Yes, I know. Don't overdo it, though, or I won't be able to believe you. _He sticks his nose to each parchment, breathing in deeply. He gives Teagan Guerrin's a few more thoughtful sniffs, wagging his tail slowly. When his nose hits the paper from Loghain Mac Tir, he only takes one more and his tail wags quickly as he gives a low, agreeable bark. Maris looks down uncertainly at that letter. She trusts Sarim's judge of characters quite a bit more than any person's, except her father's. Sarim's approval means something to her, even if she has no idea what she's doing now. She lies back on her bed, the letters lying on her stomach.

Loghain Mac Tir would give her independence. She knows this from her very brief acquaintance with Queen Anora, who had been raised with no disadvantage to her male peers. Her tutors had been the same as King Cailan's for history, geography, logic, some mathematics, languages, rhetoric. The queen is a strong woman and queen and much more of a ruler than the king. Maris knows better than to think such things aloud, though she knows her father finds Cailan charming, but vapid and inefficient, concerned more with where he might be going for drinks that night than trade issues. Once Bryce had approached the queen regarding some Highever trade issues they had been resolved in mere weeks, the same amount of time it had taken to even get Cailan's interest.

Well, perhaps Anora wasn't the best comparison. Maris remembers old court gossip about his first wife, a commoner named Celia. She had been largely left alone at his estate in Gwaren. Maybe for another woman that might be a problem, but for her it was nearly ideal. The time she'd have to spend at court would be minimal, if she wanted it that way. She had been raised to run a terynir, even if Fergus is the heir. Bryce is cautious, after all. With all the time Loghain spent in Denerim, she might not even have to see him very much.

She tries not to think of how marrying Loghain Mac Tir would gloriously feel like she's thumbing Rendon Howe in the eye. She tries not to think of who Loghain Mac Tir is not because she's acutely aware of that. She knows he is his own man with habits, prejudices, and paranoia engrained in him. He doesn't (or can't, maybe) write in script like other noblemen. She knows her father would disapprove of her thought, but she tries not to remember he hadn't even a family name until King Maric bestowed one on the man declared to be "Maric's Butcher."

Mostly as she pulls herself up and out of bed, disinterestedly getting dressed in a shirt and trousers, Maris tries not to think of how Nathaniel had always been the Loghain Mac Tir to her King Maric when they had played as children.

* * *

A few hours later as Maris stands outside of her father's study, she begins having second thoughts. She should think about this more, shouldn't she? Isn't this madness, getting married to someone she doesn't know (she doesn't know _any _of them, she reminds herself, except for Thomas)? But it's not really madness. Her father would have carefully screened letters and given her the best ones, thinking them over himself and with her mother. She trusts her parents implicitly, even if she doesn't always get along with her mother. Who would she trust aside from her parents and brother? She's just sixteen-

Just sixteen, she thinks to herself and presses the palm of her hand over her mouth to stop from giggling. It had seemed like such a mature age on her name day, a year of planning and considering the rest of her life, but she hadn't bothered. And now she's paying for that lapse. She remembers once when she had been very young, chattering to Nan about Fergus's lessons with blunted short swords, and how she would love to end up in the army, fighting and defending Ferelden. Nan had looked at her and smiled like she hurt, saying chidingly, _life doesn't always turn out like you plan, sweets. _

Her father's study seems less important now. She holds her hand up to knock and pulls it back down. Nan is surely a short walk away in the kitchens and Maris makes the walk, her breathing just a bit easier as she thinks of Nan's honest and warm scolding. When she steps through the threshold, Nan's assistants look at her with surprise. Nan herself is muttering about how you can't trust an elf in the kitchen, for Maker's sake. They'll just burn everything. Maris clears her throat and Nan looks up.

"Good to see you back among us," she says briskly, going over and ushering Maris to the bench of a table. "Salem, get Maris some light ale, the Lothering cheese, bread, and some of that boar."

There's a split second where Nan's old calloused hand is on her cheek, caressing it lovingly, and then it's gone.

"Nothing from your Nathaniel then?" she asks in an undertone. Maris just shakes her head. "Well then Rendon Howe is a fool, my girl. You'll be an asset wherever you and your parents decide- get out, get _out!_ Maris, your hound-"

"Sarim," Maris says, grinning at the sight of Sarim lurking just inside the doorway. He looks at her pleadingly. "Sarim, you heard her. Wait for me just outside."

"Great bloody _dog_," Nan mutters, all tenderness gone. "A horse, more like."

"He's my handsome horse though," Maris says, falling into a familiar argument with Nan.

"And lucky that," Nan says. "Any hound but that of the lord's child would have met his end with some particular roots long ago-"

Sarim gives a plaintive whine from his spot just outside the door. Salem smiles tentatively at Maris and sets down a plate of food and a tankard in front of her.

"Thanks," Maris says. "Nan, look, you've hurt his feelings-"

"I am _not _apologizing to that brute. Not again."

As Maris eats the familiar banter with Nan makes something in her feel right again, centered and back to where it should be, mostly. It still feels a bit off-kilter, but she feels like she can face her father now. The letters tucked into her waistband are poking her in the fleshy part of her stomach. When her plate is empty, Maris looks hopefully at Nan.

"We don't have any of those odd Antivan fruits from Oriana's family left, do we?"

"Those round orange ones?"

"Yes, those-"

"They're in the bottom drawer, but if you insist. My old bones can just get on and off the floor with naught a care-" Nan tosses it to her and Maris pulls her hunting knife from her boot, cutting a line into it before beginning to peel it. The low chatter from Salem and her sister in the hall dies down and Maris is picking apart the orange into its slices as her mother walks in.

"I'm glad to see you up and about," Eleanor says.

"A Cousland does their duty," Maris says, shrugging and looking down, intent on her orange. It's a fascinating fruit- well, perhaps not, but it seems fascinating right now.

"Your father's back in his study," Eleanor says. "We should go and see him now."

Maris wants to argue, but the tone in her mother's voice is like well-forged steel. She stands and looks briefly at Nan, who is busy berating Salem again, then she follows Eleanor out, snapping her fingers for Sarim. Bryce is bent over a ledger in his study, his fingers ink stained and pressed against his temples. When Maris walks in, he looks up and smiles. Whether it's relief or something else Maris can't tell, but seeing her father smile helps her nervousness.

"Have you a decision?" he asks, gesturing for her to sit in one of his chairs.

"I think," she says, pulling the letters out. "These four-" the two foreign ones, one from Arl Urien, and the other from Bann Ceorlic were thrown to her father's desk- "no. There wasn't much contemplation there, duty or not, Father. I- I'm not leaving Ferelden. My duty is _to _Ferelden. Vaughan Kendells is a repellent man- did you hear what he tried to do to Arl Wulff's oldest daughter? I'm surprised Geoffrey didn't run him through for his sister's sake. Bann Ceorlic- I can't be married to a man with no backbone or morals and that's what he is; he sides with Teryn Loghain on everything because he's frightened to cross him."

Bryce picks up the letters and looks at them. Though his face is stoic, Maris can't help but think he's trying not to look relieved or to smile.

"That's your right," is all he says, tucking the letters into his desk drawer to write graceful rejections later. Maris doesn't mistake her mother's soft sigh as anything but relief, especially when Eleanor's hand on her knee squeezes.

"Bryce, I've told you that Vaughan Kendells' actions aren't merely those of a rambunctious boy," she says quietly. "They are serious indiscretions and indecent."

Bryce only frowns before motioning to Maris to continue. She still has four letters. She pulls out Bann Sighard's and shakes her head, genuinely regretful about this one. Oswyn really wouldn't be terrible. She could grow to enjoy his company, perhaps even be an equal partner with enough persuasion and time, but given the political and economic ramifications of her two choices she knows as the teryn's daughter she has a duty to choose one of the others.

"I really like Oswyn," she says, "and Bann Sighard is wonderful and fair, if a bit strict, but he's- Oswyn simply isn't my best option. Politically and economically, it would be sound enough, but- I have someone better."

It does hurt a bit as her father takes that letter. He knows to write a genuinely regretful rejection for Bann Sighard to soothe over any bad feelings. Sighard is canny enough to understand it when her betrothal is officially announced.

"And this one," Maris says, pulling out the hateful one from Rendon Howe, unable to stop herself from pulling a face, "I don't- I can't even understand the insult, Father. For Thomas? _Thomas_-" Eleanor's hand moves to her forearm and gives her what's meant to be a reassuring squeeze- "I can't- I know he's your best friend, but Thomas is far too young. He's not even inheriting Amaranthine. He'll be given some land and commissioned somewhere. Nathaniel told me that a few years ago."

Bryce frowns and says nothing as he takes the letter. Maris thinks he looks confused, but she has to press her own emotions down and can't focus on her father right now. This is one of those things she knows she's going to have to do better at once she's around court. _Suppress your own emotions and listen to everyone around you, Pup_, she hears her father saying. _You'll learn a lot that way._

The hand her mother has on her arm is nearly painful now and Maris shakes it off. Eleanor places it on her knee again and Maris doesn't bother to displace it.

"Bann Teagan wouldn't be so bad," Maris says. "I like him and- if it were the two of us in Rainesfere I think- we could be happy. He's certainly a good man. I know such an alliance would prove valuable; Tea- Bann Teagan is very popular amongst his brother's vassals, enough so that with your additional support you might have nearly unanimous southern support in the Landsmeet, if necessary. Economically, we- Highever would benefit from our proximity to Rainesfere. As one of the close ports, we'd be able to do a lot more exporting and importing with such an alliance."

"There's a but here," Eleanor says, sounding resigned. Bryce seems to miss the resignation in Eleanor's voice, but Maris is bolstered by the smile on his face.

"Arl Eamon," Maris says. She presses her lips together as she gathers her thoughts. "If I may speak plainly about him, Father?-" Bryce gives a short nod- "I know he's fairly popular and generally he isn't too awful, but I know you have a dislike for him. He's scheming and not in a Ferelden way. It's almost Orlesian, underhanded and in the shadows. It's very like he plays a persona as a good Fereldan nobleman, but it feels flimsy. It makes me uneasy. And Bann Teagan, for all his good and noble actions and thoughts, is not only susceptible to his brother's influence, but is Eamon's vassal and subject to him. It's- disconcerting and not a tenable position."

"You have thought about this," Bryce says, taking the letter. "I think I can write Teagan a letter both saying and not saying all of those things."

"And the thought of Isolde as my sister-in-law is more than I can possibly bear," Maris says, grimacing.

"I won't mention that part," Bryce says dryly. "Though I'm sure she'll be devastated as well."

Maris snorts and takes a deep breath, setting the final letter down. The wyvern is staring at her, she is sure. Criticizing, evaluating, and finding her lacking. Well, too bad. A betrothal was generally not withdrawn except in dire circumstances and nearly impossible once both parties agreed. Helped keep threats down to a minimum, for one.

"I believe Teryn Loghain's offer is the best for our family," she says, trying to make herself sound as confident as she had felt in the few minutes where it had seemed like the best possible outcome for her. "A marriage would be a statement of political unity between the Mac Tirs and Couslands at a time when the banns and arls are getting complacent- and using their more numerous votes to stall laws and issues. While I don't expect you and Teryn Loghain to agree on everything, I think this would help alleviate some of the- _concerns _circulating, allowing for peaceful compromise."

And by "concerns circulating," Maris politely means the rabble-rousing caused by Arl Eamon, who seems to believe his noble blood entitles him to something more than his arling, even if he'd been a bloody coward and stayed away during the Rebellion. Plenty held him in contempt for that and his marriage, but he still held just enough sway to keep the banns squabbling among themselves rather than seeing the larger picture.

She sees her father nod briefly, his expression very business-like.

"What of the economic benefits?" he asks politely, as though she's presenting her lessons with Aldous to him to make sure she's keeping up properly.

"Gwaren's mining and lumber industries would be a boon to Highever," Maris says, knowing she's playing it by ear, not having even thought about economic concerns. "We have some mining and lumber, but not nearly what they have. In return, imports from other countries in Thedas would flow easier to Gwaren if they had an agreement with us rather than their current one with Amaranthine."

"Certainly," Bryce murmurs, looking down and tracing the wyvern seal with his fingers. Then he looks up and smiles. "You certainly did quite well making that last bit up, though I supposed if you'd really needed to consider such things you would have been able to do more thorough research and consideration."

His eyes fall back to the letter and his smile falters.

"Teryn Loghain then, Pup?" he asks. "Are you sure? Once he receives the letter, it'll be difficult to get out of and once the contract is signed it'll be impossible-"

"I don't have much choice," she says, not looking him in the eyes. "I know that whatever political and economic ramifications it would bring are good for Highever- you wouldn't have given me that letter otherwise. I- I think he's the most likely to offer me some level of independence and it would let me be a teryna. I can run things while he's gone to Denerim (and he usually is, you know). I like him well enough and I'm sure I'd find- I'd find some contentment, at least."

Bryce stares at her for a moment and then lets the letter stay on his desk.

"Alright," he says quietly. "I'll write to him this afternoon so the letter can be with the courier to Amaranthine in the evening."

Maris stops herself from shuddering as Bryce picks up the letter and places it in a separate drawer from the others.

"Do you need me for anything else, Father?"

"Not for now," Bryce says. "Why don't you go find Fergus and Oren? He mentioned something about showing Oren some sword stances."

Sarim's ears perk up at the mention of Oren and he's to the door before Maris even gets up. Eleanor removes her hand and stays seated; Maris can see that her mother is biting her lip to stop herself from speaking. Spending the afternoon with Fergus and Oren sounds like the best distraction she could have hoped for and she quickly leaves her father's study, first going to her room for a few more minutes to herself. She closes the door and wishes she could bolt it, but presses her back to the door and slides down, taking a few deep breaths. She can hear Sarim outside the door, scratching and whining to be let in.

"That wasn't so bad," she whispers to herself as she covers her face with her hands, pressing the heels into her eyes so all she sees is colorful blasts. "It could have gone worse. At least Father didn't press me about Thomas or the others. I made my case for Teryn Loghain and I didn't say I _wanted _to marry any of them. He didn't interfere or insist otherwise."

She looks at her desk and unsteadily gets up, sitting down and pulling a piece of parchment to her. She inks her quill and presses down, looping his familiar name together quickly.

_Nathaniel_

_ I'm sorry_

But what is she supposed to say? Despite all their promises to one another, she's nearly betrothed to another man, pending banns and the negotiation of the betrothal contract. She's done so with just a few days of moping around and strong reminders about Cousland duty. No matter how many nights they had spent together, whispering in the pantry or running through the woods and fields around the castle, she's thrown it all away for Cousland duty. Nathaniel had given up his father's pride and consideration for her, many times over, and had probably even been banished to the Free Marches for his father's derision of "Bryce's little spitfire," essentially abandoning Thomas and Delilah. Her strong personality and Nathaniel's headstrong attitude weren't what Rendon Howe had imagined when he had introduced them as small children. Maris knows he had wanted them to marry, but not like this, not with love and determination to do what _they_ desired.

_ Cousland duty_. The phrase interrupts her thoughts and causes her to hold the quill tightly. She feels it snap under her fingers and she drops it on the parchment with Nathaniel's name, ink spattering all over it. She looks at it listlessly. Maybe that was symbolic somehow. What is she supposed to be sorry for? She suspect they've both broken promises made to each other, even if this is probably the worst, and she knows he'll understand, which is somehow the worst part. That Nathaniel will understand and know why they could not be together.

"Fuck Cousland duty," she says under her breath. Maris looks up quickly, chewing her bottom lip out of nervous habit, but why in the Maker's name would her parents be standing there? It's a childish, ridiculous thought.

"Fuck Cousland duty," she says again, more confidently and she likes how it rolls off of her tongue, even if she knows there's no point. Her words are different from her actions; she has done her duty anyway.

She can say what she likes in her bedroom. No matter how puerile it is, she can and why should she care? No one had cared about what she had wanted, not really, only what she could do to further the family. She had been lucky that her father had even let her consider among the betrothal inquiries and hadn't just told her she was to be married on this date at this time and in this Chantry. She knows it happens occasionally, though it's generally frowned on and considered vulgar.

"Maris?" she hears Fergus ask. There's a hesitance in his voice even as his knock is strong.

"Auntie?" she hears Oren chirp. "Auntie, Papa's going to show me sword stances! Will you come-"

"Oren, she might be talking to Granddad still," Fergus says.

"But why's Sarim's out here then?"

"I'm in here," Maris says, getting up and opening the door. Fergus sees the parchment on her desk and raises an eyebrow.

"Getting to know your betrothed already?"

"Are you betrothed, Auntie?" Oren demands to know. He's sitting on the floor, patting Sarim's muzzle as Sarim closes his eyes in contentment.

"Not officially, sweet," Maris says.

"But when?"

"It depends on what Granddad does. He's the one arranging it-"

"But I want cousins _now_!"

Maris opens her mouth to respond, but puts a hand over her face instead. Deterred for a few minutes by the lack of an immediate response, Oren turns back to Sarim.

"Oh, Maker," she says faintly.

"Who did you-" Fergus starts to say.

"Teryn Loghain," she says in the same faint voice.

"Oh."

"Frog," she says, "I- I'll have to- to do _that _with _him_. He's- he's _old _and Maker Anora is older than I am- and he's twice my size-" she stops, not wanting to think of any more.

"Auntie, what's '_that'_ and who's '_him_'?" Oren asks. Maris looks at Fergus, whose mouth is open in horror. Whether at her sudden realization, Oren's question, or a combination of both, she doesn't know and looks back to Oren.

"Never you mind," she says firmly, taking one of his hands and pulling him up. She grabs him under his arms and hoists him over her head so he sits on her shoulders, where he squeals with delight.

"The training room, Auntie! Papa's still going to show me sword stances!"

Fergus follows her as she begins to walk down the corridor, Oren reveling in his sudden height increase. Fergus takes her elbow and slips his arm through hers. He leans over and whispers to her, "Gwaren is 324 miles from Amaranthine, you know."

She raises an eyebrow at him.

"I looked it up while you were with Father."

"You couldn't have known I would choose him," she murmurs so Oren won't hear.

"I looked up Rainesfere too," he says. "Gwaren is actually two miles further away from Amaranthine than Rainesfere."

_ 324 miles. That's as far as I can get from Rendon Howe and Amaranthine without declaring myself Avvar and running off to the Frostbacks or joining the Chasind in the Korcari Wilds. _

"You're brilliant, Frog," Maris says, grinning at him for the first time in days.


End file.
